When Catapulted
by bokonon
Summary: Cloud is an inmate at a Juvenile Corrections Facility going through therapy to control his emotions. He begins the mental task of finding his place in the world, and what happiness really is. Cloud/Sora.


Doc just gave me this journal. I don't really know what to do with it. He said it would help me organize my thoughts, which seems fitting after what happened today. If this were a movie or a story, someone would call what happened today a "breakthrough." But no one does that in real life. Breakthroughs aren't really recognized right away by people ("hindsight is 20/20"). But the fact that I was given this journal signifies something. Doc sees it too. Maybe we're both just clairvoyant like that, him because he's got a PHD in Psychology; me, because I'm my own subject. (This is strange to me. I feel like because I'm writing this I have an audience, even if it's just this journal--unless I guess if someone reads it. Anyway…)

I guess, Journal, I'll give you a brief update. My name's Cloud. No, it's not a nickname for "Klaus." I don't know why my parents named me that, but so be it. I'm inmate #16335 at Juvenile Correction Facility. Two months ago I got in an at first verbal fight with my father that, as a result of me, well, "snapping," became a physical one, at which I "dominated," the kids would say. I shouldn't say that. I shouldn't take what happened lightly, but I feel like I have to otherwise I'll just drive myself insane with shame and guilt. And anger and frustration. I'm sure the list could go on if I felt it prudent to utilize more vocabulary. Moving on.

Yes, I attacked my father with flailing fists. I didn't kill him. Part of me thinks I came close, though, but I have to ignore those thoughts when I start to wonder that far away from safety--'far away from safety' being 'closer to the truth.' As if you couldn't tell by now, I have some issues.

Anger issues, to be exact. I guess I've always had a short fuse, but I never really considered it to be a legitimate problem until that night with my father. Which is why I'm here. I'm not really being "detained" here because I'm being punished for breaking the law, per se. I'm, at the moment, however seen as a threat to society in some way, so I've been here to meet with a therapist--the aforementioned "Doc"--in hopes of trying to, well, fix me. Though that's not the terminology we use anymore. Anyway, I'm here to sort out my anger issues and, hopefully, get out of here and… I don't know. On that note, I guess it would be appropriate for me to talk about the events of today that led to me receiving you, Journal.

I was sitting in my cell. Now don't get the impression that I stay in a cell with bars and a cellmate with a lone, dull hole-in-the-ground-for-a-toilet, though I do have a hole-in-the-ground-for-a-toilet in here. But it's not as bad as movies portray it. I live in here by myself--"for my safety, and for the safety of others." Instead of bars, I have a, what I would guess to be a stone, steel, or a combination of the two, door with a small window in the center of it. The walls are an "off-white", or perhaps "eggshell" color, though I'm sure there's no real difference. I have a cot that I sleep on usually, but sometimes I take my single pillow and sleep on the floor. I don't really know why. To make me appreciate my cot, I guess, so that I get some sense of, if not happiness, at least relief.

Sorry. I definitely got off topic there. Anyway, I was sitting in my cell, just laying on my cot thinking about taking a nap when a security guard walked by and looked in through the window. This, in an of itself, is not uncommon; he was just making "the rounds." But then he decided to stare at me even though I wasn't doing a damn thing. After a few seconds I couldn't take it anymore so I said, "what?" and he said, "boy, you better not take that tone with my or else."

"Or else what?" I snapped.

"Now calm down."

I snapped.

"Or else what? What are you gonna do that's gonna make me regret 'takin' that tone with you' hm? Do it.

"I said _calm_ down!"

"No, fuck you! You think you can just walk around and fuck with me like this you little prick, trying to make me feel insignificant unprovoked?"

By that point I had gotten off my cot and went to the door, my face framed by the window, yelling. The way he was looking at me when I said that to him was too much. He looked to be a mixture of amused and surprised. I clenched my fist and slammed it into the door as hard as I could. I didn't feel it. When I get mad enough, my whole body begins to go numb and my head cloudy. I stop thinking and simply react however I do. I feel a sort of…disconnect with my body. Subsequently I don't remember much. My guess is more guards came to try to calm me down. Doc eventually showed up to also bring me down from my tantrum. It eventually worked. The next thing I remember completely was sitting on the floor of my cell with Doc's head looking at my through the window, telling me to breathe.

Then he told me to tell him what happened and I told him.

I guess I got a little worked up again telling him what happened, because he told me to take more deep breaths, and I did. Then he said, "I understand that he shouldn't have said that to you, but remember to try to control your reactions."

By that point I had regained all of my mental composure and addressed what I had done with emotional coherence. "Yes, I know, I know. I'm seventeen and still throwing tantrums like a five-year old…"

"Now Cloud, your anger isn't quite the same as that of a toddler," he said in an almost amused tone. I looked up at him and tried to smile. I think I may have, because he smiled back.

"Okay, let's go to my office to talk for a bit, if you're okay with that."

I looked at him and then looked behind him to see the security guard. Sephiroth was his name, and he's the asshole among the guards--always taunting and teasing inmates just because he knows they can't react. I sighed and looked back to Doc and said "yes." I knew I could go out there without attacking Sephiroth. A, because I'd be tased in a heartbeat. B, because I had my temper under control. I guess for safe measure, though, Doc had him leave to go do something else because he was gone when my door was opened. Though maybe he pussied out.

Once we got to his office, I collapsed in my appropriate chair in a huff of relief and said, "Doc, I wanna get better, I really do."

"I know you do," he reassured.

"There are times where I feel like I have complete control over my temper, and other times where I feel like I have no control at all over my temper. Are you sure I'm not schizophrenic, Doc?"

"Haha, I'm sure. Just a bit moody sometimes. What's your state of mind when you feel like you don't have control over your temper?"

I thought about it for a bit. I do that a lot, think about myself and analyze myself up and down.

"I guess…not quite depressed, but… frustrated."

"About what?"

This I actually didn't have to think about.

"What I'm going to do if I get out of here."

"When you get out of here," he corrected.

"Right. When I get of here. I don't know what I'm going to do… Right before I had snapped at Seph I had been thinking about what I would do if--when I got out. Maybe he just caught me at a bad time?"

Doc leaned back in his chair all doctorly-like, pondering what I'd just said. I wish smoking was allowed in his office for two reasons: 1, so that he could've been holding a tobacco pipe up to his mouth as he thought about what I'd said to complete the picture; and 2, so that I could smoke a cigarette during our meetings. But it's not, so he didn't, and I don't. Then he said, "So it appears anxiety is the root of your short temper, would you agree?"

I thought about it, looking around the room unsure. I guess he caught on that I didn't really get it, so he continued.

"It would be very fitting. The human body itself reacts to anxiety the way it does in stressful or dangerous situations--it goes into 'fight or flight' mode. And you just react by going into 'fight' mode instinctively."

"That makes it seem like I can't be fixed."

"Well, firstly, you're not broken; you just need to learn to control your temper. Secondly, I don't mean to imply that you can't control your temper. Just that your reaction isn't so far from the norm of human nature."

"But look where it's gotten me."

"Yes, living in a society does demand some _tempering_," he said with amusement, "of our instincts. The way you're wired makes it a little more difficult for you, but I've no doubt in my mind that it can be done." He paused and thought for another minute.

"I think I've being going about this the wrong way. I've been having you try to control your temper, but now it seems that you're just anxious about the future. I'd call this nothing more than an identity crisis. Does that make sense?"

"Like I don't know who I am?"

"No, just that you can't find your place in the world once you get out of here. Do you know what you want to do with your life?"

"No. Not a clue."

"Okay. What's your state of mind when you do feel like you have control over your temper?"

"I dunno, really. I guess when I'm just…thinking about being in my cell, or not addressing the outside world at all. When I think about how I made it through another day without getting angry, I get happy and pleased with myself and it makes me think that I could do this everyday. But then I remember that I'm not going to be here everyday, that I'll, hopefully I guess, someday be out of here and back in the world. That's when I get anxious and feel myself starting to slip out of confidence."

He thought some more and then pulled you of his desk and handed you to me. "I want you to have this, for both today's homework assignment and for your own use. First, I want you to come up with a list of five or so things that you would like in your life once you get out of here--some things to aspire to, some things to give you meaning, if you will. Pretend that you're not here at Juvie--you never were--that you're out in the real world trying to figure out what to do with you your life. It can be a career, personal fulfillment, or whatever you come up with. You're just another teenager trying to figure out what to do with your life."

I haven't come up with a list yet. I stared at a blank page for a good half hour, I'm sure (though time itself I hard to gage in my room) trying to come up with a list, but I couldn't, so I just decided to begin use of this of my "personal accord."

I took the journal and then Doc reminded me as we were leaving his office to ignore guards if they try to fuck with me (my words, not his). Said that they're probably just bored working here with nothing to do, so they trying to antagonize inmates to bring some excitement to their day.

Then something weird happened. As we were walking out of his office, he saw his son, who meets him there everyday, after school I'm assuming, sitting against the wall reading. Doc went over to him, and I wasn't sure if I should follow or not, so I kinda stayed behind. He told him he'd be right back, then he turned to me and waved me over. Then he introduced use. I don't know why, I figured he'd want to keep me out of his personal life, much less introduce me to his son. His son's name is Sora (I guess that's how you spell it; I've never heard that name before). He had crazy spiky hair like mine, but his was brown. He stood when his father introduced us, and he was a little shorter than me. He looked to be about my age, maybe a year or so less? I told him my name was Cloud and he said nice to meet you and held out his hand. I was surprised. I expected him to show no interest in me, if not for the fact that he didn't care to make friends with inmates at juvie, but that he may be too scared to. There's a strong social stigma tacked onto people who have been in jail, prison, or even juvie, so I assumed he would assume that I was dangerous. But he didn't act like that, he just acted…normal. He treated me normal too, adhering to all the semi-annoying social formalities one endures when meeting someone new--and I was actually grateful for this. I felt like we were just normal people in a normal setting, not an inmate at juvie meeting his therapist's son.

We didn't really talk, though, which is strange. We just introduced ourselves then Doc said that he'd be right back as he started walking away, and I followed. Sora went back to reading. Further down the hall, I turned around slightly to look back at him, and he was still reading. Then he looked up for a moment and we made eye contact, and I quickly turned back around. I hope Doc didn't notice.

Now I'm back here, listless, but not without valor to keep trying to come up with a list. I'll sleep on it. Maybe the floor, tonight. I'm starting to get tired of my cot again.

PS. I would date this if I knew the date. I should've asked Doc. Then again, part of me likes not knowing the date. But I don't think that's good for me. It's a disconnect between me and the real world, to which I should aspire.

* * *

  
I've slept on it and spent most of my afternoon thinking about what I want. I came up with a list of four. I'll talk to Doc about it. I felt strange thinking of this list. I remember learning a Portuguese term last year that I don't think ever made sense until I made this list: _saudade_. It wasn't sadness, but it wasn't happiness I've felt before.

1. Go to college  
2. See the Hrabal Wall  
3. Learn a new language  
4. Have a friend  
5.


End file.
